Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ midnight sky

thatch always warned you to stay away from him and his kind—that men like him only ever leave ruin behind—but that doesn't stop a certain pirate from always showing up at your door. or in which edward kenway proves remarkably terrible at staying away and you're glad for it. rated 18+ for smut

KINGSTON'S STREETS BLUR. He should have known better, but the promise of a quick profit was too much for a simple man of fortune to ignore. Now, he's paid the price and is not a penny richer for it. Damn fool. There's slick warmth seeping betwixt his fingers, and each uneasy step coaxes more of life's elixir free. His hand presses harder against his side. And when lightning splits the sky, he can see the bloodstain growing.

Just a little farther. His feet drag, slipping in the mud and catching uneven cobblestones. Teeth gnashing, he breathes—shallow and ragged. It's not the first time he's been in a predicament such as this. Likely won't be the last time, either, all things considered, but there's more blood now than there's ever been. Vision tunneling, he fixates on a single point at the end of the lane—a painted green door. Your door.

You almost mistake the knocking for thunder, but at this hour, you know it means only one thing.

Edward Kenway stands in the doorframe, barely able to keep himself upright. Rain soaks his coat and tunic—straw-blond hair hanging in wet clumps and clinging to his forehead. His face is pale, like a man at death's door. There's no smile or cheeky remark offered to soften the sight of him like usual, only blood running from beneath the hand he has pressed against his side and a distant, hazy look in his blue eyes.

He sways on his feet. You catch him when he steps forward, stumbling, arm looping around his waist before he can pitch face-first onto the floor. Edward grunts, a deadweight against you when you brace, shoulder digging beneath his arm to haul him the rest of the way inside. "Jaysus." The door slams shut behind you, muffling the roar of the storm, but then louder than the lashing rain and howling wind is the unsteady drag of his breath against your neck.

Lowering Edward into the nearest chair, you go to fetch oil lanterns and candles, setting them around your personal quarters and lighting them with a taper from the hearth. In truth, you're afeared of what the light will show given the state of him.

Your hands set to work immediately, unbuckling his sword belt, and unfastening the holsters with his pistols. He tenses when you touch the layers at his side and lifts his hand—a surge of blood follows then as you push the coat from his shoulders. A sharp and involuntary hiss leaves him when you peel the blood-soaked fabric away, easing his tunic up and overhead.

Edward's head drops forward, chin nearly to his chest, like the breath has been punched out of him. His hair obscures his eyes—half-lidded and clouded but flitting between you and his side. The bleeding hasn't slowed.

You know by the look of it that he's been shot. Far from the first person to stumble into your clinic with a musket ball in them. It's not a clean graze, but it's far enough from his gut that he notices the smallest bit of relief settles in your expression, enough you finally curse him. "Damn you, Edward Kenway." You've said the same thing ever since he first came into your life like a hurricane.

He manages something akin to a laugh, or it would be in better circumstances, now it's just pained. "Many have tried."

You kneel, prodding the flesh around the bloody tear with one hand, the other holding tight to a candlestick. Edward's lips twitch when his gaze traces the curve of your lips—drawn into a frown because of him—and the furrow between your brows. This isn't how he planned to show up at your door after being away for three moons. He was supposed to bring you a gift, treat you to a sunset stroll on the beach, or take you sailing for a day. Instead, he's bleeding out in your rocking chair after thinking he could make a quick buck off the King's Men at the tavern over a game of dice like a proper knave.